


The Thousand Natural Shocks That Flesh Is Heir To

by jmtorres



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Other, just a coupla queer masc nb angels, kinky-ass humaning, the lube/not lube game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-26 20:52:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19776202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jmtorres/pseuds/jmtorres
Summary: It's an experiment they talked about; teased each other with, once they realized they were both a bit turned on by the thought of the restriction. To be human, limited and mortal, and to experience sex that way, fully embodied.





	The Thousand Natural Shocks That Flesh Is Heir To

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Hello! I wonder why you don't like fics where Crowley and/or Aziraphale summon a tube of lube?](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/497809) by ariaste. 



> Ariaste's essay on lube in Good Omens fic made me ponder under what circumstances Aziraphale and Crowley might actually need to think about lube. The answer I came up with was "kinky-ass humaning."

"Are you sure," Aziraphale says. Again. "You're not going to be able to modify your apparatus in the middle of things, you know."

"Yes, yes," Crowley snaps, "that's part of the whole, well, thing, isn't? _They_ can't. So."

"And you've, erm, made your selection?" Aziraphale checks. 

Crowley shifts, drumming his fingers on his inseam. 

"Should we coordinate?" Aziraphale suggests.

"Surprise me," Crowley says. He figures he knows what they're doing tonight, but if Aziraphale _does_ manage to surprise him, well, he's flexible.

"Are you leaving your eyes like that?" Aziraphale asks.

"Yes," Crowley hisses at him, deliberately. 

"Well, all right," Aziraphale sighs. He does a complicated set of gestures with both hands, then flips over the hourglass on the nightstand. That's it: they're bound. Until the sand runs out, they can't use their powers. For anything. 

It's an experiment they talked about; teased each other with, once they realized they were both a bit turned on by the thought of the restriction. To be human, limited and mortal, and to experience sex that way, fully embodied. 

Two minutes in, Crowley is still peeling his jeans down his thighs, and complains, "Next time we're getting naked first."

"One doesn't need a miracle to get undressed, surely," Aziraphale says, although for some reason he's having trouble picking apart the knot in his bowtie.

Kissing works more or less the same, in terms of lips and tongues and jaws and so forth, though there seems to be more saliva than normal and that's a _bit_ weird, and then it gets better, it seems more thrilling--and that's down to neither of them have worked out how to breathe through a very long and messy kiss, and they make each other light-headed before they break apart and their bodies gasp on a reflex they don't normally have.

Crowley tries to breathe through his nose, testing, already thinking ahead to how he wants to manage oral sex. It doesn't work as well as he thinks it should. Does he have a defective nose? Did he hook it up wrong? No, air goes in his lungs, just... not as effectively. 

Well, he _likes_ the light-headed feeling, and he's pretty sure humans are supposed to be able to hold their breaths a couple of minutes at a time, he can work with this. 

Gravity and mass are frustrating to work with at full strength. Aziraphale puts his knee down on Crowley's knuckles and Crowley barely realizes this is a poor placement in time to yank his hand up before Aziraphale starts to lean in. Crowley discovers what a gag reflex is and decides he does not like at all; Aziraphale, who has experimented over the millennia with his mouth and throat for the purposes of perfecting his palate, laughs at him, gently. There are other discoveries less harrowing: Crowley skims his fingers along Aziraphale's belly in a way that makes him twitch involuntarily (!) but when Crowley asks if he's hurt, Aziraphale replies ponderously that no, he seems to be ticklish. 

They do a bit of this and a bit of that, and, well, _humans_ are excessively preoccupied with penetration these days, so they go for it, only it doesn't. Quite work. "Is it supposed to be this difficult to get it in?" Crowley whines. Usually, when their powers are in play, nothing's difficult, everything gives way easily when they want to let each other in. He reaches down to try to line things up better, so maybe it won't need quite so much force. "Maybe it's a challenge? They like challenges, don't they?"

"Oh," says Aziraphale, sitting back suddenly. "No, or, well, yes, but this one's a solved puzzle, I've read about it. We need lube."

"Bugger," Crowley mutters.

"Well, I am trying," Aziraphale retorts.

Crowley contorts himself to check the hourglass. "If we have to go out for it, that's going to eat up our time."

"You, er, wouldn't happen to have anything here?" Aziraphale suggests hopefully.

Crowley thinks about it for a minute. Purpose-made lube, no, he's never gotten that, but foodstuffs, maybe? He rolls out of bed. "Olive oil. I'm pretty sure the human I'm supposed to be has a lovely decorative bottle of olive oil on display." He drops a kiss on Aziraphale's lips. "I'll be right back."

He finds the shapely bottle on the granite counter by the pristine glass induction cooktop. It is very decorative. It is so decorative it has lovely, colorfully contrasting shapes in it. Cloves of garlic and whole peppers, infusing the oil. Crowley eyes this with trepidation. He wrestles the decorative cork out and sticks his finger in, then tastes it. Yes, that has a bit of a sting. Is it only a flavor or also a sensation? Best not risk it. 

The refrigerator light doesn't come on when he opens it, and Crowley takes a confused moment, head cocked. It's not humming either. The fridge usually hums softly. Is there a power outage? A very local one, since the lights in the hall and bedroom are on? 

Never mind. The waft of air coming out of the refrigerator is cool enough, so he can worry about its operation later, when he's not running out the clock on arranged activities with Aziraphale. Crowley digs through the shelves, finding things that are viscous but not liquid enough--paté, preserves-- _definitely_ not the fig preserves, he thinks, looking at the profusion of tiny seeds speckling the jar. But ah--here--butter, _whipped_ butter, the container announces, smooth and soft enough to stick your finger in, easy to spread. 

"I thought you were getting oil?" Aziraphale inquires when Crowley drops the tub on the bed.

"Butter. Better. Grease up, angel, let's get this show on the road," Crowley says, scooping up a few fingers full to apply to his own parts. 

They're going to ruin the sheets, Crowley realizes. Well, he supposes he can clean up after the hourglass runs out. 

They deem the resulting activity a moderate success, in that they eventually find a position where no one's thighs cramp or pull, achieve penetration, work at each other for a few invigorating minutes, and both (with some manual assistance) experience an orgasm. It is not, by far, the most pleasurable or mind-blowing thing they've ever done, but it's a perfectly satisfactory result for the experiment. 

Afterwards, they find themselves sweaty, slippery, sticky, smelly, and generally uncomfortable. Too much so to enjoy cuddling, even though arguably neither could make the other filthier. The hourglass still has a respectable pile of sand to go. "Shower?" Aziraphale asks hopefully.

"Mm, yeah, pretty sure it's hooked up," Crowley mumbles, thinking worriedly of the refrigerator. 

They make their way to the bathroom, which, like everything else in Crowley's flat, is full of gleaming surfaces and fixtures. The faucets are shiny and curved, there is a stack of decorative towels they will feel no guilt about shaking out of their fan folds to dry themselves with, and there's not a bar of soap nor bottle of body wash to be seen. (Far too messy. They tend to get gummy around the edges and caps when actually exposed to water and use.) 

Aziraphale mutters something about cleanliness and what it's close to that Crowley is not, and starts poking through drawers in the vanity. Crowley ignores him in favor of playing with the knobs in the bathtub to see if either will provide hot water. It's not looking good. 

"Crowley?" Aziraphale says with a strange note in his voice.

"Eh?" Crowley says, glancing over his shoulder. 

In the bottom drawer, Aziraphale is pointing to. Ah. Hmm. A stash of condoms, labeled things like "ribbed" and "ultra-thin" on their wrappers, a purple tube marked Astroglide, and some silicone toys in various shapes. 

Crowley never invested in this stash, but he contemplates how he imagined most of the furnishings into place, all the necessary items a human inhabitant would require. "I believe," he says slowly, "the human I'm supposed to be has a fairly active sex life."

"He would, with the way you dress, dear," Aziraphale snorts.

"Well, now we know," Crowley says. "For next time."

"For next time," Aziraphale agrees.

The shower is freezing. Crowley ends up with something of a to-do list for next time.


End file.
